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Welcome to My World School, Derb

All the kids wearing smocks running around, delivering trade tickets and lunchtime sammiches, were probably oblivious to this dumb fuck.

Hell, I’ll go all the way down the line: Most of the people–not dilettante brokers who read New Yorker religiously yet insist they understand WTF Buckley was going on about when he wrote “God and Man at Yale,” –had no idea who the current clown’s name tossed up on the trading board belonged to… they probably figured you to be some English meat….

While he observed this pageant from his perch as “invited guest,” Derb was probably oblivious to the idea that HIS Precious Snowflake would end up drunking it up at [pick one] Pub if she actually gets the intern gig.

My daughter and I had a very instructive morning yesterday. A friend at NYMEX (the New York Mercantile Exchange, now under a different official name) got us visitor passes, with a view to Nellie possibly getting an internship at the exchange in her summer vacation. My friend showed us round.

What a thing to see! This is one of the last of the real floor-action exchanges, with traders in the pits shouting and shoving and making hand signals. I didn’t actually see any yellow suspenders, but that’s still the ambience.

[ed note: No, that’s you being a frakkin jackass. No one wore yellow braces because it was some sort of collegiate uniform.. you’re dreaming that shit up….]

It’s some heck of a job, too, requiring very special talents, rather like high-level athletics. When you see the amount of data these guys process in their heads minute by minute, making dozens of judgment calls every working day, with hundreds of thousands of dollars riding on every call, it makes you feel very dumb and slow. It’s not just the data pouring in from the phones and the screens, either, it’s reading people too. You watch the traders from other firms. If one of them, from a certain rival firm, at a certain point in the day, with the numbers moving a certain way, stepped back to talk on the phone for a while, you know which major client he’s talking to*. Or if you don’t, you should probably be in some other line of work.

*If the SON OF A BITCH MOVES, you know he’s planning to make your world a big old bag of shit.

via Downtown with Nellie – John Derbyshire – The Corner on National Review Online.

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